


We Have to Stick Together

by allie_quinn



Series: The SoliMiller Collection [1]
Category: Metal Gear
Genre: Drug Use, Humiliation, M/M, Manipulation, No Plot/Plotless
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-26
Updated: 2015-10-26
Packaged: 2018-04-28 05:58:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,055
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5080366
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/allie_quinn/pseuds/allie_quinn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Kid, listen: if anyone ever tells you that, you are totally fucked."</p>
            </blockquote>





	We Have to Stick Together

**Author's Note:**

> This is a gift for long-silver-bullet.tumblr.com
> 
> It is not a good gift, but a gift nonetheless
> 
> forgive me

His head lolls, world a blur of the bland colors in this bathroom and the shrill music playing.

Not music. Ears ringing.

Head pounding.

 

It's wearing off.

 

Miller sighs, reaches down to the left, and finds a bottle of booze. Doesn't matter what kind. A swig from the bottle reveals it's empty, and he curses at it before tossing it into the trash can.

Swing and a miss, it shatters against the wall. 

Clean it up later.

 

What he wouldn't give for Costa Rica, those drugs so easy to find and easier to take. His body was young, then, and his mind was whole. It was the 70's, and "broadening your mind" was code for recreational abuse of narcotics and hallucinogens. Miller chuckles, a psychosomatic tingle in his left nostril bringing him back to those days.

White line on a mirror. Rolled-up dollar bill. 

"Come on, Boss, be serious."

 

He'd always been serious and Kaz had missed it.

 

He wants to miss it again. Wants to be so coked up on a Caribbean Friday night that his nose is bleeding and his mind is racing and he's not sure if it's Boss fucking him, but it feels good either way.

 

Boss wouldn't lie, right?

 

Miller stands and stumbles, metal prosthetic connecting against the porcelain bathtub as he steps over the edge. Fuck that leg. Fuck the other one, too, to be perfectly honest.

Fuck his head.

Fuck his heart.

 

Fuck his son.

 

"David," Miller slurs into the phone, knowing the dumbass will show up either way--out of concern or out of desire, the Hell Master doesn't care which. "David, why not...come over? We can, uh...."

_Fuck, what's the word?_

_What's the goddamn shitty motherfucking--_

"Eat?"

"Yeah," Miller laughs. "Yeah, bring food. We'll eat."

 

They eat pizza, and they drink beer; for a split second it feels like mainland America and not the Forgotten North. They smoke like men and they bullshit like boys. Miller hates looking at him, but he has to in order to find release. This kid is a bad trip, he has to be, he can't be real.

"Master? Are you ok? You seem tired."

"Long day," Miller recedes, standing and stretching and very obviously stumbling. "Stay here, I have something for you."

 

_Why the fuck does it hurt to grab weed?_

Miller stands and puzzles, doesn't realize he's been in the bathroom nearly thirty minutes, staring at the pill bottle containing his stash.

"Master!"

 

A shiver down his spine at the kid's hand on his arm, but was he gripping so hard there was  _crunching?_

 

"I got it, I got it," Miller grumbles, but the kid still wears an expression of concern. "What?"

"Your feet," is all the soldier manages to say, and Miller sees his bare foot bloody and glistening from the shards of glass on the floor.

"Foot," the bespectacled man corrects, followed with a raucous laughter that only hell could have taught him.

 

His foot hurts.

But the kid is under it.

 

_This is some gay shit._

 

Boss--John--David! was bandaging his foot, the shards removed and the blood wiped away.

"Why are you doing this?"

"We have to stick together," David laughs, apparently attempting to lighten the mood.

"Kid, listen, if anyone ever tells you that: you are totally fucked."

 

There's a silence as David digests the Master's words. It goes on too long, and he feels awkward.

 

"You'll be fine for now, but I think--"

"I didn't train you to think."

 

No. No, he did not.

 

If he would _think,_ he would know it isn't John's hot mouth on his own.

If the kid would _think,_ he'd know he would be fucking ruining his chances at anything other than being court-martialed. 

But there are hands everywhere and oh, God, it's getting really fucking hot. There's a familiar and firm ass in Miller's flesh-and blood hand; the kid is so close, so like his father, so...sober.

Too sober.

 

Miller knows David will swallow whatever is given to him, because David trusts and that will be his downfall. The little white pill passes through full, pink lips; now all that's left is to snap the trap.

"Wait on that. Do you wanna hit?"

Miller lights the joint, taking a drag and offering it to David. Brash young solider,  _of course_ he's smoked weed before, but smoking it with the Hell Master is an experience he won't forget.

Or, maybe he won't remember.

 

It's difficult, but not impossible, to shotgun the rest of the cannabis smoke while atop David. The kid is needy and whining and needs to just  _chill out,_ God damn; why hasn't that Vicodin kicked in yet? Still, he's tight around Miller's cock, and his face is flushed. He's panting and moaning and  _fuck he sounds just like John._

 

"Is this...what you wanted, Master?"

 

It's a bizarre jolt, to hear Boss call him Master and ask sexual praise, but not a bad one, truth be told. Miller indulges, lets himself have this small piece of candy, burying himself even deeper and snarling like an animal.

"No, but you're good enough."

 

It wasn't  _altogether_ a lie.

 

Almost an hour later and the vicodin and the weed and the booze are swirling together and muddling sense and reason. They're finding new ways and places to touch and lick and grind; it was filthy and base and Miller lived for it.

 _"Ahhhhh, fuck,_ just like that, Dave," he hisses, the kid's head buried between his legs. "Good boy, good fucking boy."

A hum around his cock reminds him that he is dangerously close to climax, and so he goes in for the kill--the fuck he always wanted and never got.

 

Metal fingers tangle in that dark hair.

 

Choking, gagging resistance.

 

Tears running down that pretty fucking face, struggling for air and space in a throat entirely occupied.

 

"You gotta take care of me, remember," Miller snarls, "We gotta stick together."

 

 

While Dave coughs up thick globs of cum and phlegm into the bathroom sink, Miller feels the drugs overtake him and he closes his eyes, hoping it would be the last time. Maybe he'll fall comatose and never wake up. Maybe he'll die.

 

Either way, here or there, he's in hell. John is here and John is there.

 

Fuck.

 

They're fucking stuck together.


End file.
